


Safe Houses

by LizzyRhymeswithBlue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Different dimention, Ford stitches him back up, Gen, Stan gets the crap beat out of him, Stan is in pain, its darkish I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:27:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8987452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyRhymeswithBlue/pseuds/LizzyRhymeswithBlue
Summary: At some point, he thinks he tried to run again. At that point, he remembers a crack, a sharp pain, and his voice screaming in the distance as the captors broke his leg. He even tried to escape again on that, he thinks. He doesn’t know. Eventually the pain caught up with his age and exhaustion. He doesn’t remember how he hit the floor then, or anything after.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one shot based of an AU idea my sister and I had, which was basically Ford is a race car driver on a planet that looks like Audio Surf and has a culture like Fast and Furious. The story is actually supposed to focus on Stan learning about this crazy part of Ford's portal life, but instead I wrote about him having the crap beaten out of him by scary stereotypical aliens and then Ford pretending that one of those Ph. D's is an M.D. 
> 
> It's disjointed and context-less, and the tone of the story is completely at odds of the rest of the idea, but if you like Stan in pain, I guess you'll enjoy. Cheers.

How Ford had managed to survive for so long in a place where literally every being seemed to have muscles made of steel cable, Stan still couldn’t figure out. Possibly, his brother was just better at not getting hit, which was never Stanley’s strong suit.

He was surprisingly reflective on this as another fist cracked into his skull post failed feint. The Avians knuckles were rock solid, sending stars whirling across his vision. Stan couldn’t help but be grateful he had no more teeth left to knock out, but that was probably because he’d done too much getting punched in the face in his youth. He reached out with an open handed jab, hoping to get a hold of something he could wrestle, but he whiffed feathers, the creature slipping past. He couldn’t see anything anymore, his glasses had long been knocked away, and a warm red stinging was dripping into his eyes.

He resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t getting out of here on his own free will, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take as many of the feathered fuckers as he could down with him. His swings were flying wild, but every connection he made was solid enough, and followed by enough cursing that he was satisfied that the damage he was doing was substantial. He sunk his teeth into someone who grabbed him from behind, catching a glint of metal and glass as they shouted and dropped him.

Free. 

He ran, didn’t know where he was going, but it was sure as hell away from there. Hauling ass down the street to the soundtrack of shrieks his escape had triggered. He turned the next corner- or he tried to. There were more there. Taloned fingers caught his left arm and – what did Ford say it was? Newton’s law? 

Anyways, the arm stopped, but his body didn’t and an old injury released itself again. 

He howled in pain as his shoulder dislocated, and Stan dropped to his knees, pulling his arm close against him, hoping that it won’t be jarred again. There is no such luck, the Avians that stopped him haul him up by his arm pits, and he can’t catch his breath through the pain as they drag him back down the street. Someone stuck a needle in his neck, and the glinting object from earlier made sense. 

Fuck. 

Ford was right, not that he’d admit it. He should never have gone out alone. 

In the next five minutes he slackens, and as he’s pulled into a building, the world blurs, and the hours following are a montage of stills of sloppy punches, half-hearted escape attempts, a throbbing head and rolling stomach. At some point the fog had cleared enough for him to determine that his arm needed to go back where it belonged, and he mercilessly shoved it back in, grinding his teeth together against the pain and the sick noise his joint made, before he stood to try and fight again. 

At some point, he thinks he tried to run again. 

At that point, he remembers a crack, a sharp pain, and his voice screaming in the distance as the captors broke his leg. He even tried to escape again on that, he thinks. He doesn’t know. Eventually the pain caught up with his age and exhaustion. He doesn’t remember how he hit the floor then, or anything after.   
When he’s awake again – really awake again – Stan had no idea how long he’d been there. He decided that faking unconsciousness was his best hope for a more gentle treatment. He can feel it properly now, how his right leg is broken somewhere, and very badly. His left shoulder, his good arm, is throbbing and swollen and there is something wrong with his ribs, evidenced by the fact that he can barely breathe without fire burning his torso. Something stings on his left leg too, but it’s not as bad as the right though. 

He exhales slowly, trying to stay quiet, but he groans as his ribs move, and one of the Avians is approaching. It garbles something to another in what Stan assumes must be their mother tongue. He guesses they must know he’s cognizant again.   
He was right, for once in his life, of course, exactly when he really didn’t want to be. There was a pinch in his neck as another dose of their strange roofie-like sedative was administered un-methodically to the side of his neck, causing him to suck in suddenly and shoot bolts of pain through his rib cage. 

He waited for the fog to roll back. With the sloppy injection site, it usually took about 15 minutes. 

After twenty, it didn’t. 

After thirty, still nothing. 

He’s still in control, but the drug has an unexpected side effect. It numbs him completely. 

Ford had warned him about the Avians, how they had a stereotypically alien interest in humans, and after forty-five minutes of waiting, the creatures seemed pretty keen to get on with exploring that on him. Too bad his roofie put the fight back in him. 

The first of the two in the room approached him, chattering away at the other in a tone he was all too used to hearing his brother take as he discussed experiments. It leaned over his head, and when he felt the shadow that was cast, his eyes flew open and he swung his head up into the other creature. He felt nothing, better than nothing, actually. For the first time during this disaster he felt fully alive – and that continued as his arm gave less than a dull throb as he swung a solid punch into the Avians skull. 

Ha-ha, Left hook! 

The bird went down.

He jumped up and into an immediate grapple with the next one, fighting over a syringe in the squawking creature’s hand. Somehow, Stan won that battle, sticking it into the creature’s eye while depressing the plunge on it. He cracked it over the head for good measure before making as fast as an escape as his useless leg let him. He crept the rest of the way slowly through the confusion of the building, dark hallways hiding him, barely slipping away unnoticed. He planned to be far away by the time they noticed he was gone. 

Stan emerged on the darkest, dingiest street he had ever been on. Considering his twenties, that was saying a lot.   
“Where the hell…?”   
Right, he suddenly recalled. The surface. The underbelly of the Crossroads society where the poor, the drugs and the whores hung out to debauch and feel like less than the dirt they stood on.   
It reminded him of Detroit. 

He started shuffling down the sidewalk, doubts creeping into his mind that anyone could be bothering to look for him. How long had he been gone now? Ford must have noticed he was missing, but that hope turned black as he traversed the crumbling blocks, the numbness of the failed sedative draining away, stealing his will and determination with it. The fact was, he was lost. Hopelessly so, in this skyless hell, and if he couldn’t find an assent back to the city, there was no way he would be able to get help. No one would think to look here. Brown concrete and stained asphalt began to warp as the strain on his body took over, the pain flooding into the holes his courage had been. He was limping now, barely able to put weight on either leg. 

West Landon. A green, metal, exit sign swung dizzily in front of him, hanging from one corner, the opposite bent from where it had hit the ground ages ago. Stan stumbled on wards, the part of his brain still faithful to himself filing that away. He stumbled for another block and a half, coming to rest leaning heavily on a street pole. 

Finally, he could honestly say he had never had worse. 

He’d struggled pained and dazed through more than his fair share of unfamiliar streets, but at least then he could always count on the sun to rise. There was no such luxury here. By now, those Avians would be looking for him again. He closed his eyes for just a second. 

“You can’t give up Stan.” He whispered to himself. “Ford will miss you, you never gave up on him,” but he’d always given up on himself. He let himself slump over, his old body finally having had enough of the shit he was giving it. Under the next street light, shining down like a damned fairy tale, stood a welcome beacon of hope. The payphone was only fifty meters away, the dingy light cast down on it shadowed the booth coldly, but Stan felt his determination return. Praying to gods he hadn’t believed in for the entirety of his adult life, he forced himself towards it, dragged himself into the small booth, resting his weight on the phone book shelf, lifting the receiver, begging for it to still be online. The idle tone blared into his ear. He dialed collect. 

~

Fringe glared at the number on his phone. Surface number, payphone. After the frenzy that had been the last week, nothing was surprising to him anymore, but who the fuck would be bold enough to phone him from the surface? He slid his thumb to answer. 

“Collect call from – “an automated woman’s voice said. “ – STANLEY.” A panicked recording said. 

Fringe accepted immediately. 

“Stan, Holy FUCK! Where are you? Your brother is half mad –“ 

“Shut up Fringe. I don’t have much time,” He made a sound of discomfort. “The last sign I saw said ‘West Landon’. I’m almost two blocks from that – “he’s cut off by a thud and cries out. “Please hurry, I can’t run anymore.” He made a choking sob after, and it hurt Fringe to hear. 

“Can you hold out for an hour? I know where you are. Whatever you do Stanley, Stay put.” There’s a quiet moment and a strangled; 

“I’ll try.” 

Fringe grimaced at the pain in Stan’s voice as he hung up, not wasting a moment to dart into the apartment above the shop, grabbing a dusty set of keys and a thick blanket. He bolted out of the back door of the shop, taking off down the street with a rumble, not telling anyone he’d left at all. 

~

Stan found the swirling orangeish-purple smog disconcerting. He figured that the disgustingly thick gas was purposely engineered by someone up above to keep the scum of the surface hidden from higher society. 

Rude.

This place sucked.

The fact that a potential conspiracy was more important than the fact that he was lying on his back behind a dumpster in an alley, trying to hide from aliens, slowly sinking into unconscientiousness should probably have been more disconcerting. 

Probably.

He wished that he’d hurry up and succumb to it, the pain was starting to drive him loony. If he’d just black out the pain would be gone, the fear could go with it, and Ford wouldn’t have to waste another day worried about his comfort. Actually, he hadn’t felt comfortable a single damned moment on this stupid excuse of a planet, and this felt like the accumulation of all that and then some. 

His family had probably pronounced them both dead by now, and even a long time ago. He closed his eyes, figuring he had might as well prove them right at this point. How long had they been here? It felt like two years…. Ford had told him about the time dissonance between here and home. Six months here, to one there. More than enough time to have searched the woods of Oregon fruitlessly for them. For them to have given up. He was ready to give up. The static behind his eyelids was going blacker, and his thoughts had fully returned to his home. Of Mabel, holding white flowers, in a black dress, over a head stone with empty ground below it. Dipper staring at Ford’s empty seat as he graduates with honours. Tears are gathering in the corners of his eyes imagining it. He doesn’t hear the rumble of the approaching engine over the fuzz in his head. He has no fight left when hands are grabbing him, hauling him up. He let them take him. He’d rather be dead. Sorry Mabel.

“Stanley!” Had it been an hour? Fringe was supposed to come get him in an hour. He was supposed to stay put.

“Come on –“ His shoulder burned, he slumped into whatever was grabbing him. It’s not like they could put him in much more pain than he was already in. 

“STANLEY.” Someone shook him. Stanley? That was a name it had been a long time since he’d heard. 

“Stanley’s been dead for years ya monster.” He grumbles out.

“Fuck.” Whatever held him was shuffling him into a car.  
Yay.

That was his favourite way to get kidnapped. 

“Stanley, come on, work with me!”

He was buckled in. Aw. They cared.

“Listen to me,” His head was forced up to meet someone. Red eyes stared back into him. “It’s going to be rough ride. I was followed at the junction. They know I’m looking for you.” There were tires squealing somewhere and the guy swore. 

“Who’re you?” he mumbled.

“It’s Fringe, Stan, Remember?” 

Fringe… Weird name…. Fringe… Friiiiiiiinge…  
Fuck. Right.   
Surface.  
Avians.

“GO!” Stan’s brain manages to resume function as panic overwhelms the haze. 

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Two cars rounded the corner as Fringe gunned it off the curb. 

Stan got lost after about five turns, the unfamiliar trucks engine was surprisingly, and comfortably loud. It sounded like Soos’ old pick up. Soos… Poor Soos…

“You there Stanley? Keep hanging on – “ Fringe jerked the car into a swerve as another alien vehicle flew out of an alley, the truck barely missing them. He grunted, a bump in the decrepit asphalt jolting him out of his unsteady seating arrangement. 

“Stan, please answer me. If you die your brother will kill me – “ A car rear- ended them. Stanley cried out and woke up a little.

“I’m sure – “

“Good, thank you. There’s whiskey in the glove box if you need something.”   
That sounded like a bad decision, but he was desperate for the pain to end. 

“That’s a stupid place for liquor – “ He slurred out, but wasted no time in grabbing the small bottle, downing as much as he could in a few gulps, coughing, then going back for a few more once that had had a few minutes to settle. 

“Chrysler, slow down. When was the last time you ate something?” But Stan is slipping away into the alcoholic buzz. 

“Dunno.” Slides from his mouth, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he actually said it out loud. Another sharp turn throws his bad arm into the seat, he yelps again. 

“It’s going to be okay, we’ll lose them when we hit dirt – “ Stan whines in response, still waiting for the stabbing pain to die down.

“What hurts? What did they do to you? Keep talking to me Stan, work with me!”

‘Dirt? Where….?” 

“I have a safe house.” Fringe bullies the truck around another corner at speeds that shouldn’t have been possible. 

Heh. 

Take that Newton. 

Stan doesn’t have a chance to be amused, he lets out another squeak as his leg hits the door. 

“Almost there – “The ground becomes unrelentingly rough, between the alcohol, the remains of the drugs in his system, and the assault on his nerves from everything being broken, Stan is unable to take in a single increment of their surroundings. For all he knows they left planet light years ago. 

Space, man. 

Fuck. 

They hit a particularly bad bump, and Stan’s head slams into the back window.

“AH!” 

“Fucks sake, Hang onto something!” Fringe demands. Stan doesn’t listen, curling forward, holding his bad arm against his stomach, and getting as close to fetal position as he can, trying not to move it anymore, trying not to budge his mangled leg. The tears are back, coaxed by pain and panic. There’s no more care about pride. His head is throbbing along with his shoulder, his stomach is trying to revolt, and never mind the actual injuries and God damnit he just wants to be sitting in his warm arm chair napping while Mabel fusses with his hair and Dipper tells him about the latest episodes of Ghost Harassers. Another turn, and the most protest Stan can make is a weak whimper, barely sounding above the engine and roar of tires over dirt. 

“You can do it Stanley! Five Minutes!” Was Fringe worried about him? Great. Someone else who’s time he’s wasting. 

“What are you thinking about? Keep talking to me! STANLEY.” Alarm ringing in his rising voice. Stan supposed it had been too long since he’d said something.

“’M here.” Sort of. 

They hit another bump, but Fringe was starting to slow down, rocking Stan’s stomach into even more of a riot. He just closes his eyes and begs for the ride to end.

Before he knows it, it does and Stan can’t see anything. It’s dark as death, his glasses are long gone, and he’s drunk, dizzy, tired and – He cries out as Fringe scoops him off the seat, into his arms, bridal style. 

“Easy, easy. It’s okay. You’re safe now. Let’s get you in.” 

Up one step, onto a dilapidated porch, keys jingling – Fringe trying not to drop him as he fumbles open the door. Stan felt miserable, curled in his friends arms like a sad, whimpering child, rather than the capable old man he was. Finally his internalized worthlessness was projected, he concluded bitterly as Fringe lowered him onto a couch. 

“I’ll be back in a second.” 

Stan grunted in response, maybe. He stared up at the ceiling. A safe ceiling. A safe ceiling was an alluring thing to stare at when the last time you were on your back you were dying in an alley. At least he was dying somewhere safe now. 

Safety.

That was something he had both spent too much of his life without, and too much of his life taking for granted. He didn’t feel safe. He felt like at any second he was going to fall into tiny pieces, shivering into slivers of himself – when did it get so cold? The shaking was aggravating his ribs more. He screwed his eyes shut, tried to even his breathing, grinding his teeth. How was someone his age supposed to recover from all of this? Another shiver shook through him, more violent than the last, then someone was touching him again. Was he being restrained? Something was wrapped around his arms. He was too tired to fight, but he feebly pushed away. 

“Stan, you’re cold. Please, stop moving.” A pause, then there were hands on his face. “Stan? Stanley? Are you still with me?”   
Right, Fringe. Safe. Right. 

“Stay still, it’s just a blanket.” Warm weight wrapped around him properly, being tucked under his chin like Ma used to do it when he was a child. His good hand was gently removed. Something small pressed into it. 

“Painkillers. I have water. You probably shouldn’t take those with alcohol in your system, but we have to do something with you while I go get your brother. He’ll be able to help you.” He helps Stan sit, with gentle pressure on his back, thumb rubbing reassuring circles. Stan takes the pills without protest, swallowing them with a gulp of water before drinking the rest of the glass without stopping for air, lying back down slowly, with a supporting hand on his back. 

“What did they do to you?” Fringe whispers dismayed. Stan closes his eyes again as Fringe rubs his head gently. He lies there, waiting for the painkillers to work. Until he hears keys jingling. 

“Wait-“he says slowly. “Where’r you goin’?” he asks, panic rising back up.   
“I have to go get a hold of your brother – “Stan squeaks, starting to sit. “No! Wait! Please, don’t leave me alone. What if they come? I’m useless – “He’s gasping on panicked breaths, “Please, I don’t want to be alone!” Fringe stands at the door, awkwardly trying to find a solution.

“Good news is; they will never find you here. So don’t even worry about that…” He moves back towards the couch. “Look, you need rest and real food. Did they not feed you? Do you know how long you were gone?” Stan slowly shakes his head no. 

“A night?” He screws his face up, trying to think through the returning haze. 

“Stanley, you were in the hands of those filthy birds for a week.” Fringe says angrily. 

Stan blinks a few times. 

“What?” 

“I need you to rest, and I need to go get Stanford, okay? So you need to sleep, and when I get back, Ford can fix you up.” 

“I can’t! Please don’t leave me alone-“ 

“I can sedate you.” Fringe won’t meet his eyes as he offers.

“Out?” Stan asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Asleep? Fully? No awareness at all?” 

“Have you not been sleeping?” Stan can feel his tears betraying him again. 

“I don’t know. I don’t think they let me –“ 

Fringe swears, heading down a hallway and returning only a second later with a needle and a small bottle.

“You may feel sick when you wake –“ He starts a spiel that sounds rehearsed. “You may experience hallucinations. There is no guarantee you will stay asleep, or that your unconsciousness will be restful. We may not be back yet when you wake.” He brushes Stan’s hair away from his neck, eliciting a fearful hiss from Stan, and a cringe at the plethora of sloppy injection sites marring the soft skin, nowhere near any useful veins. 

“Just one more.” Fringe sighs, running a gentle thumb over the bruised marks. He skips the cinematic drama, moving down to his elbow. He wraps a piece of rubber hose around Stan’s bicep, drawing up the liquid, teasing out a vein. 

“Pinch” he mumbles, slipping the needle in his arm. 

Fringe starts counting backwards from forty.   
Stan stops listening at 30. 

~

Ford jumps out of his chair, stumbling over his own feet as he flings himself across the counter at the ringing of his phone. A surface number? He swears, whoever this is, if they have Stanley, he will pay any ransom.

“Yes, this is Stanford Pines,” he rushes through the greeting. 

“It’s Fringe – “

“Have you found him?” Ford’s voice rises frantically, fearing the possibilities of the answer. 

“Yes.” Ford lets out a long breath, though the short answer leaves too much to be desired. 

“Well? Is he okay?” 

“Actually, no.” Fringe says matter of factly. “We can’t move him around, they’re still looking for him, and they’re watching for me. You need to get at least a weeks’ worth of food, first aid – actually bring as much medical equipment as you own – “ 

“Fringe, what is going on?” Ford is fighting desperately to keep his control. 

“Are you writing this down? We need lots of blankets. See if you can pick up some real wood somewhere – he’s cold. Medicine. Painkillers. Strong ones.   
Probably antibiotics too. Chrysler, I’m willing to bet that gash was never cleaned.” 

“Fringe is he still in one piece?” Control gone. Begin panic. 

“No, technically. He’s suffered a compound fracture to right leg, and there’s something severely wrong with his left shoulder – “ the strangled noise that escapes Ford is an unfamiliar sound to his own ears. He’s running around the house now, gathering every requested item he possesses. 

“Ice… and gas. Stop for ice and gas.” Fringe pauses his list briefly. “And you will need to talk to Mike or Sampson and get a high clearance vehicle. Sam will loan you the jeep without question, but you have to tell Mike where you are. “ 

“I don’t know where you are!” 

“Don’t worry, he will. I’ll meet you at Brandt Junction in two hours. That is all the time you have. I can’t leave him alone any longer. Got it?” Ford nods, though Fringe can’t see it, as he sorts things into his medical case. 

“I’ll see you then.” He’s wrestled his voice back to normalish, disguising the screeching anxiety. They hang up, he dials Mike immediately. 

“Mike, Fringe has instructed I inform you that we are on our way to the surface, and that I require a 4x4 to get to our destination.” He states without preamble. He and Mike didn’t get along well. 

“I’ll tell Sam to have the jeep ready for pick up at the shop. When you see Fringe, tell him I’ll be there in three days.” 

“Of course. Thank you.” 

“Mhm.” The line clicks dead, as Ford is rummaging the kitchen for things that he knows for sure all three of them can safely ingest, including a few items he knows that Stanley especially likes. He’ll still have to go to the grocery store, but he fills up with as many non-perishables as he can (and a can of ice cream, tossed in a cooler, for Stanley). He adds to the pile, a few changes of clothing for he and his brother, pajamas, specifically the flannel ones with the anchor motif, for Stanley, for some indeterminable reason, a sci-fi novel, and the tooth brush he thinks is his. Finally he tosses several heavy blankets into the passenger side of the Affordable, unceremoniously dumping the rest of the supplies on top of it. He pulls on his old brown long coat, the familiar weight calming him marginally, before steering right out to the highways while searching the internet for a store that sells real wood. 

He pulls into the shop too fast, twenty minutes wasted by driving time alone, tires squealing to a smoking stop only a foot from an un-flapped Sampson.

“So, if you’re taking the jeep, do I get the Affordable?” He asks amused.

“Sampson, I would not care if you took my first born right now if you wanted it.” 

“Yikes, Mike left out the details, but that urgent, hey?” 

“Fringe found Stanley on the surface, very injured.”

“Oh shit.” They swap keys, Sampson helping Ford move the disorganized pile to the back seat of the jeep. “What do they say in English?” Sampson stumbles over “Godspeed” in English, which Ford has no time to express his sincere gratitude for before climbs up into the tall vehicle, starting it, and revving the engine high in his haste to get to the closest store.

~

Crackers, dry cheeses and cured meats. He has no idea if there will be some place he can keep wet food. Everything and anything that comes in a can. He goes to the pharmacy at the back of the store, and bullies the poor pharmacist into giving him nearly every human medication they have, and a few from other dimensions that he recognized as useful. His prescription? The gun holstered to his hip. He’s handed every kind of painkiller- pills, morphine, something labeled “T7” that scares him a little- antibiotics of various forms, based on his best guesses at what bacteria was on the surface, and something that is apparently like extra strong Valium. Mabel had told him they no longer prescribed “mommy’s little helper” when he’d been searching for some back home, so the description of the relaxant made him smile. Any useful drugs – he doesn’t know how his brother is. 

Splints, a thousand tons of compression bandages, chocolate, more antiseptic go into his cart, as he caroms around the corner to the checkout, where he can barely stop himself from smashing his face into the handles as he waits in line at the only open cashier, who’s scanning about 1000 individual tins of cat food for a lady who’s prattling on about her babies. 

“I don’t have time for this.” He grumbles. She turns and starts telling him about her cats. “I do not have time to care about Mittens ma’am.” 

“Don’t be so surly young man. The youth these days have no manners.” She says to the cashier and he grinds his teeth to stop himself correcting her about his age. Although, he really has no idea how their ages actually compare. On a better day, he might have struck up a conversation. As it was he was ripping a page of his note book out, writing down a list of the objects he had in his cart, and the quantities, pushing past the cat lady, while tossing a wad of cash to the frazzled cashier. 

“I have no time for this!” the alarms go off as he exits. He throws everything into the jeep, abandoning the cart and gunning it before they could call the police. He left Dewey’s number on the list. She’d sort it out. 

He makes his last stop, hissing at the numbers glowing on the clock. Ice. Gas. A cola for Stanley thrown in on a whim. 

Then he’s flying down the descent to Brandt Junction, at speeds that were harrowing to even himself. With five minutes to spare, Ford pulls up beside a non-descript truck, the window of which rolls down.

“Were you followed?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Got everything?” 

“What I could. I am not looking forward to this, Fringe. I Have doctorates, I am not a doctor.” 

“You’re the best he has right now. We’ll be chased. Stick close. We’ll lose them in the dirt. 

Fringe doesn’t let him begin his anxious retort before the two of them are zipping through the dark, headlights and high beams behind them until they hit the trees.

~

“What do you mean you ‘sedated’ him?” He hears his brother screaming through the sludge in his ears. 

“Exactly what it sounds like. You should have about an hour to do the painful shit.” 

“Do you know what kind of dose you used? This is unacceptable Fringe!” 

“He was terrified and asked me to!” Fringe is yelling back. There is some shuffling and snort of surprise. 

“This is NOT an anesthetic.” 

“Works fine.” 

“How do you know that the dose was safe for a human?” 

“I’ve had other human friends, Pony.” 

“Oh yes, and you just take pleasure in sedating them?”

“He couldn’t sleep, he was scared, and I didn’t want him moving around – “

“THAT DOES NOT MAKE YOU A QUALIFIED ANETHIESIOLOGIST!” 

“Just set his fucking leg.” 

Some more shuffling, he approaches through the thick atmosphere. Stan’s legs are frozen and damp, and so is his shoulder, his t-shirt soaked. And the couch is very solid all of a sudden. He’s about to ask where he is, and why does he feel so sick, when his brother whispers,

“Forgive me.” 

The world turns white as strong hands take hold of his shin, and his muscles pull him sitting, curling to ball at a speed that seemed impossible through the dregs of the sedative. 

“Stanley!” Ford is grabbing him, arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders, trying to comfort him without causing any more pain. But Stan’s shoving him away, leaning over the side of the table he’d apparently been moved to, and emptying the meager contents of his stomach onto the floor. 

“What did you give him?” Ford is screaming again, voice cracking agonizingly.

“Jack, and a couple t3-“ 

“FRINGE. NEVER. EVER. AGAIN!” And Stan can’t focus enough to be glad that for once his twins rage isn’t directed towards him, because there’s a bucket being shoved under his face, and he can’t stop heaving.

“It hurts. It hurts - fuck – Sixer, make it stop – “ He retches again, but there’s nothing more to come up, and the dry heaves are hell on the mess that is his ribs – and shit, he’d just imagined he was still in his shirt, because they’d cut it away and they could see every detail of damage. He heaves again, muscles contracting relentlessly again, and again. He’s shaking, sobbing, and dimly aware that Ford is watching on in horror, useless to help his twin. His abs quit, he drops heavily back to what must be a kitchen table, turned operating room- hardly the first he’d been on- staring up at a single incandescent bulb, casting over him a sickly orange light, and ugly shadows over the unevenly laid, weather greyed, rough cut timbers that the wall was comprised of. And they were swimming. FUCK why were they SWIMMING? He turned away, back to the edge of the table, another shudder and retch shaking through him. 

“I…” he heard Ford take a slow, deep, breath. “I need to finish, Stanley.” His chest was heavy, the previously thick air had thinned unbearably and he couldn’t catch a breath, he couldn’t get air. He couldn’t respond.

Frankly, he was surprised that he hadn’t suffered a heart attack from all the stress at this point – not that he wasn’t more than confident that Ford would be able to resuscitate him if it came to that. 

“Easy, deep breath Stanley, come on. “ He tried to, but his whole body was so sore. The heaving had stopped for now at least and slowly, he was able to regain control of his breathing. He was returned to lying on his back, nodding in compliance with what was to come, taking heavy breaths as his ribs allowed. 

“Here,” Ford holds out his belt, folded over twice, for Stan to take. “Bite this.” He knows the drill. He does. Fringe steps forward, taking his hand with a gentle squeeze. 

Then, hands are around his leg again, he starts to breathe hard again, and Ford is slowly, carefully, working his shin bones back into some semblance of their proper place, his expression stricken like he could feel every movement, and every pain he put his brother through as he watched him squirm on the table. 

Stan blacked out at some point. His mind retracting him to summer 2012, a happy place. He’s on the lake, warm sun reflected off the cool water, and the smell of gasoline over the water as the old motor on the dingy he and his family rode in sputtered them across the water. Mabel, eating his stupid jokes up with her happy laughter, Dipper rolling his eyes at another awful pun, Soos offers him a high-five. They’re stealing people’s fish, he cheers Mabel on as they run from the “water police”. And the sun is so warm. Why is it so warm? And bright… and it’s too orange. 

“Stanley.” That wasn’t his name anymore. 

“Stanley, please, I need you to drink this.” 

Sun’s too bright. Too bright and too orange. He can’t respond to that name. He hadn’t responded to that name in over thirty years. 

“He’s not responding.” 

Why won’t his leg move? 

Why is everything grey? 

“Stanley, please.” A deep voice is pleading.

“Stanford?” He blinks. “When’d I get you back?” 

“Two years ago Stanley, remember?” 

No. But he didn’t need to know that. So Stan grunts. 

“Let me help you sit – “but Stan rolls to his side and starts coughing and retching again. 

“I need you to try and sit up, please?” His head weighs a thousand pounds, but there are strong hands under his back, helping him sit, holding him steady. 

“I need you to try and drink all of this.” 

“It Hurts Sixer,” He says in a pathetic whisper.

“I know,” he holds Stan’s face gently. “You need this before I can make it stop.” A cup of something warm is held to his mouth. He takes a sip, then another and another. The pain in his stomach eases for a teasing breath. Then he’s throwing it back up again. 

The cup is replaced with the bucket for some indeterminate amount of time. Then a cup of water, which he drinks down fast enough to get a warning from Ford, then the bucket again. More water. More bucket. 

“He’s not going to keep it down Pony,” The person holding him says with a sigh on the tenth try. Ford curses, turning to the counter on the other side of the room, pulling his hair, coat flaring out dramatically as he spins. He’s in the exact out fit they’d arrived on this stupid planet on. It’s a welcoming slice of home. Stan’s head is too heavy, he lolls it back, landing it against the person behind his chest.   
“It hurts.” 

Still pulling his hair, Ford swears. 

“I know! I know, Stanley, but please stay with me. Fringe, please put some water on.” Fringe, the other person, Stan supposes, hands him over to his brother, and does as he’s asked. Ford is hanging onto him, tight as he can without causing further stress on his shoulder. 

“I’m going to put you on a saline drip, your stomach is rejecting everything.” He sounds so frustrated, but Stan’s lost on the meaning of his words.

“Whatever you think.” He mumbles out, tripping woozily over the words. Ford swallows heavy, but he stays behind Stan, now rubbing soothing circles into his temples. 

“I’m going to clean the wound on you other leg, it looks bad.” 

“Of course.” Stan lets Ford lower him back to the table, where he’s comforted to find a soft pillow has been placed below the spot his head had been. 

“I grabbed you a blanket too – “ Fringe, he assumes, hands a throw over to Ford, who begins carefully tucking it around Stan’s shoulders. “It’s fucking cold in here.” Fringe mumbles. Stan doesn’t feel cold, not even close. There’s something cold against his left leg though, and he sort of registers something stinging, and the strong smell of an anti-septic. Ford is cautious, carefully wiping away dried blood and thoroughly cleaning the abrasion. Far more thorough than Stan had ever been with himself. The smell doesn’t leave, even as the bottle is put away. 

“We’re just waiting on our needles. Then we can stitch this up.” He returns to the head of the table, running his fingers gently through Stan’s sweaty hair in a comforting gesture. Fussing with the blanket as Stan had tried to push it away, tucking it up around his neck briefly before it occurs to him; 

“I should probably check your ribs for breaks – “ 

“’S fine Sixer – “ Stan feels like he’s starting to come back now, everything still hurts, the worst is over, he thinks. He hopes. 

“No, I’m worried, especially after all your vomiting and dry heaving.” Stan just grunts in response, Ford takes that as consent enough, folding the blanket carefully down to his waist, taking in his battered torso. “Just tell me what hurts – “ 

“Existing.”

“Oh thank GOD, you’re making jokes.” 

“’s not a joke.” 

“It’s sarcasm and that is close enough.” 

He starts at the top, and Stan grits his teeth as Ford presses in at the spot just below his mangled shoulder. After a careful prodding of his whole torso, Ford determines that despite the awful bruising, Stan’s rib cage has remained intact, to both of their relief. 

“What happened to your shoulder?” Ford asks as he starts setting up for sutures.

“Newtoned’ it.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Stan takes no small pride in the confusion on his brother’s face. 

“Stanley kept going forward, arm did not.” He swallows. “It sure wanted to though.” Ford blinks owlishly at him for a moment before it clicks.

“Oh, Newton’s First Law of Motion,” And then he chuckles. 

“Actually, that’s quite funny.” He’s laughing as Stan fist pumps lazily with his good arm. 

“Yes, successful smartypants joke,” Ford laughs harder, and Stan smiles as he watches some of the tension leave his brother. 

“So you dislocated it?” Stan nods. “Was this the first time.” Stan shakes his head. “Was it put back in properly?” 

“Jammed it back in as fast as I could and started punchin’ again.” Ford snorts.   
“Of course you did. The socket may be broken. If that’s the case, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do. As it is, you will need surgery on that leg, probably this too.” 

“Had no choice.” 

“We’ll get it wrapped and slinged, but I hope for your sake it’s still in one piece.” 

“I’ve done it before.”

“That… does not console me.” 

“Eh. Sometimes ya gotta do what’cha gotta do.” 

“Yes, but you should at least attempt to do so in a safe and controlled manner.” 

“Dunno how.” 

“That’s, well, not fair per se, but I understand, to a degree.” He pulls the blanket back up to Stan’s neck. 

“Too warm Sixer.” 

“I’d prefer you try to keep it on, Stanley.” 

Stan grunts again in response, he knows Ford is grateful that they’re having the conversation at all. Ford’s pulling gloves on now, and wrapping a very official looking rubber tourniquet around his bicep. 

“Fringe, I need something to hang this off of, please.” Fringe comes back into the room carrying a mutilated wire coat hanger. He tucks it into a gap in the ceiling panels.

“There ya go Dr. Pines.” Ford glares coolly at him for the mocking moniker, but eases the needle into Stanley’s vein without letting it affect him. 

“You should start to re-hydrate shortly. I have liquid morphine, though I would prefer not to give it to you if possible, but we can start you on that seeing as you can’t keep pills down.” He waits for a response before finishing his suture needle. 

“How much do you weigh?”

“225lbs.” Stan grumbles out, Ford gives him a funny look. “Yes, okay, I could stand to lose some, but I was 250 the summer I got you back, and I’ve put considerable muscle on while on the boat – “

He feels the biting sting of the needle, then the familiar tugging of stitches pulling through his skin. It’s sore, but compared to everything else, it’s grounding. 

“Hmm. Maybe we shouldn’t chance it? After your earlier cocktail, I don’t want to accidentally wind up over dosing you.” He sits quietly, watching over his glasses as he pulls a few more stiches. 

“How would you rate your pain Stanley? On a scale of one to – “

“TEN.” Stan says without waiting for the scale to finish. 

“Alright, morphine then. Fringe, could you please draw, me 15mg please?” 

Fringe gets to it with a suspicious lack of snark, which from him is miraculous. Ford starts to instruct him on how to administer it, earning him an 

“I know how to do drugs, Pony.” Leaving Ford sputtering, and Stan trying not to laugh and upset his anything. 

And then the morphine finally hits him, like ice in his heated veins, at first, he’s just grateful, then five or so minutes later, the weight inside his head lifts, and is gone. He’s light now, floating away, and finally, finally falling asleep, watching a blonde young man sip tea by the blood sullied sink. 

~

“I don’t want to offend Fringe,” Ford says. They’ve moved Stanley to bed, set him up with water, juice, and snacks for if one of them isn’t with him when he wakes up, and did what they could to immobilize his legs and shoulder, both of which have been packed in with ice. “But your shack makes my shack look like The Mansion.” Fringe shrugs, the two are cleaning up the impromptu operating room, sterilizing and tidying. 

“It’s just a safe house.” He says. “I don’t use it for anything except emergencies.”

“Yes, but,” Ford says, pulling a can out of the cupboard. “What the hell is ‘Synthetic roast Beef?” Fringe can’t help but have a chuckle at the man who used to be his lover, who somehow, in the shitty light of the kitchen, staring in horror at fake food, stressed and exhausted, still managed to be handsome. 

“What’s it sound like Pony?” 

“Disgusting!... Or… like SPAM?” 

“I don’t know what that is. Synthetic is what most people down here can afford. Has enough to keep you going, but not enough to keep you satisfied.” Fringe takes the can away from him, sliding it back onto the shelf, relegating it to the very far back, and replacing it with a can of real food that Ford had brought. “Which is why I demanded you stop for groceries.” 

They’d lit the wood stove that was in the sparse living room, otherwise occupied by a threadbare carpet and equally thin couch of indeterminate colour. The room lacked any true windows or lights, the glow from the stove attempted to warm the dark but the long shadows it cast only added to the discomfiting chill of the living space. 

“God this place is bleak.” Ford mumbles with a shiver. Even the bedroom he’d left Stanley in carried the same motif of hopeless grey wood, as well as an eerie wrought iron framed bed, open closet with a few wire hangers dangling despondently bare, save for a holy sweater that Fringe had donned at some point. There was a lamp that Ford had left on, not wanting his brother to wake up in the dark to a strange room. That, the lone light in the kitchen, and a matching one in the bathroom were the only thing in the building that consumed electricity, and were powered by a generator, made of frankenstiened car engines – obviously Fringes making. The stale disuse, the lack of colour or decoration and daylight, left Ford to shiver again, and pull his favoured trench coat tighter around him. 

“This place feels haunted.”

“Only ghost around here is Rich.” 

“Nothing around is rich.” Fords says ruefully. Fringe shrugs again. 

“Did you get a chance to speak to Mike?” 

They had finished their stocking at this point and Ford was now seated at the kitchen table, holding a steaming mug of coffee where his brother’s head was only a few short hours ago. Ford wanted nothing more to forget that fact, along with the hoarse screams tearing through his throat as he tried to put his sibling back together. It was permanently burned into his memories now, just like the first time he’d heard that agonized sound when he’d permanently burned his brother. In fact, Stanford found that he had far too many memories of pained screams from his twin, sounds that he should never have been put in a position to have had to have made. He pulled his mug in closer, re-wrapping his jacket once more, and wishing that perhaps, there was something stronger he could fill the mug with next. 

“Sorry, could you repeat the question?” 

“Chrysler, Pony, it’s not a spelling bee. You can just say ‘What’.” Fringe teases. Ford blinks. 

“What?”

“Good!” Fringe congratulates. “Did you speak to Mike?” He asks again.   
For all Ford felt, it could have been years ago that he had made that phone call, it could have been days, for how long the hours had felt. He had no idea how long he had been playing Civil War Surgeon on Stanley for. He was ready to step out of the butchers tent and burn the damned thing to the ground though. He knew that much. 

“He said he’d come in three days.” 

Fringe nods. 

“Okay good, that was our usual arrangement. “

Ford hums, taking a sip of his coffee to the loving grumble and screech of Frankengenorator. 

“Are you sure it’s not haunted?” Ford asks suddenly, Fringe groans. 

“I don’t believe in ghosts Pony.” 

“Well that’s stupid. They are very dangerous,” Ford starts in on a discourse about the categories of ghosts he had catalogued back on Earth, Fringe nodding placating along until Ford excused himself to go check on Stan. Fringe turned his attention to the plain, un-adorned wall. 

Then hurled Ford’s mug at it, as hard as he could. 

~

“Hey Knucklehead, how are you feeling?” 

Stan had no idea his brothers voice could even soften his voice that much, seeing as how often he used it to lecture, never mind the possibility that such a caring tone would be directed towards himself. He attempted to stretch, but Ford placed a hand on him, stopping the movement. 

“Shitty. Stiff. .. Old.” He added the last word as an afterthought. “But I’ll live I guess.” Ford nodded. 

“Yes, that’s true. Well, the good news is, it would seem I guessed your morphine dose correctly!” he pauses to bask in his own glory a moment, before adding, “Though, I would prefer to not have to administer more.” He checks the IV drip. “We’ll finish letting this run, then its pills here forward – “ 

“Those are equally as addicting.” Stan interjects. Ford is quiet a moment. 

“You can’t see your neck Stanley. I’d like to avoid stabbing you again.” Stan winces at the look on his face, wince turning to a grimace as something occurs to him. 

“Hey Sixer,” 

“Yes Stanley?” 

“Could you help me to the bathroom?” Stan catches the surprised expression, and the embarrassed blush that crossed his brother’s face before he manages to school it back into his neutral expression. 

“Of course.” He pulls Stan up awkwardly and they hobble across the mercifully thin hallway. Ford waits outside once Stan convinces him that he isn’t about to throw up more, and that he can successfully aim and balance his weight on one leg. Business taken care of, Stan is finally able to get a look at himself in the mirror – or as much of one as he can without his glasses on. 

Hell, or death, or something equally terrifying stared back. Yup, he looked like complete shit, this was worse than curse ugly. All things considered, his appearance should have been the last of his worries. The repulsive bruising, purple and yellow, over his brow, swelling around his eye, and the stiches that held his brow together, should have been more concerning. Still, after washing his hands, he stood in the mirror, trying fruitlessly to fluff his hair into something less sickly, and more worthy of the seaman he felt he was. He had to get his twin to carry him so he could pee. He needed to find dignity somewhere. Unsatisfied, but unable to stand on his one foot anymore as the dizziness returned, he turns to the door to get Ford to help him out. One last glance in the mirror before he opens the door, and another pair of eyes meet his. 

So Stanley shrieks, and jumps backwards away from it, smashing his bad shoulder into a towel rack, and plant his bad leg. He tumbled over, as pain flared in all his injuries, resigning himself to lying on the ground when the door flung open.

“Stanley? What’s going on?” Ford is reaching down to help him up, unsure how best to go about it without hurting him more. Stan just reaches out with his good arm and grabs his hand, hauling himself up with a loud groan.

“What happened? Are you sick again – “ Behind Ford’s back in the mirror, the blond man blinks, and turns around, disappearing into thin air.

“There was a man in the mirror!” 

“Oh god, you’re hallucinating-“ 

“No! I saw him in the kitchen earlier too.” 

“Stanley, it has been a long, very emotionally taxing day, you’re under the influence of drugs and likely, you are not seeing things clearly.” 

“For fucks sake Sixer, of everyone in the world, you gotta be the last person I’d expect to not believe me when I say I seen something supernatural.” 

“Saw, Stanley, and I’m sorry,” Ford says, sighing. They are making their way carefully back to the bedroom. “I just have more important things to worry about than the supernatural right now.” He meets Stan’s eyes, very purposefully as he says that, sitting him on the bed first, then slowly swinging Stan’s legs up for him so they sit nestled on the pile of pillows and folded blankets that had been placed to elevate them. 

The implications of that statements and the pointed look don’t go over Stan’s head. He swallows hard as Ford arranges pillows so he can sit, then eases his back against them, tucking the blankets back up to cover him.

“Would you like to try to eat something?” He asks. Stan nods, he supposes it will make graduating pain killers easier. 

He starts with the – sadly warm – juice Ford hands to him. He drinks it, and after ten minutes it’s still sitting happily in his stomach, so he begins voraciously digging into the finger foods that had been left along with it. 

“Slow down, you don’t want to re-upset your stomach.” Ford reaches to take the plate from him. 

“Ford, I have literally not eaten in a whole week,” his brother looks at him like a whipped dog. 

“They… they didn’t feed you?” 

“Nuthin’ but drugs.” Stan states factually.

“No wonder you were so sick. Fringe is going to get it. I swear Stanley, that cocktail could have killed you – “ 

“But it didn’t. I was desperate Ford, it’s not his fault, he was trying to help. I could have refused.” Stan leaves out that ‘desperate’ means that at the time, he was really hoping it would have killed him. Lucky for him, Ford wasn’t great with context clues. 

“Still…” Ford stares towards the vanity for a moment. “Do you want to try some pills? It’s been about eight hours since your morphine.” Stan agrees, very quickly, the fall in the bathroom had set everything to screaming again, and holding a straight face for Ford was becoming more of a chore every second he had to. 

Ford exited the room, and returned a short minute later, with a couple of pill bottles, and a glass of water. 

“Okay, take your pick, I have Vicodin, Oxycodone, something called a ‘T7’, more morphine – “ Stan cuts him off. 

“I didn’t think they made anything higher than a t5.” Ford is reading the label very carefully over his glasses. 

“Yes, well, we’re not on earth and yadda, yadda.” He squints at the dosage, shaking one out. “You shouldn’t need more than one, this will probably leave you pretty loopy.” He passes it, and the glass over. “You’ll be proud of me Stanley, I threatened the pharmacist for these. I told him that my prescription was the ability to destabilise his atoms.” Stan laughs, and coughs, and grimaces. Ford is pulling a few more bottles out of his coat. 

“Antibiotics, and this is some sort of anxiety medication… either way, this will get you right back to sleep.” He holds out two more pills for Stan to take, and he swallows all three at once, finishing the whole glass of water. 

“Wow Sixer, that’s a little dangerous don’t ya think?” Ford stands and moves to the other side of the bed, lying down beside his brother. 

“Yes, yes.” He pauses to take Stan’s hand. “I think, and this is my professional opinion – “Stan can’t help but chuckle at that, and Ford is fussing with his blanket again. “That your comfort is very important right now.” He finishes his fussing, giving Stan’s hand a tight squeeze. “Remind me to tell you about how I paid for everything someday.” Stan nods, but his head’s starting to fuzz again. At first, his instincts tell him to panic, and it’s worsened by the fact he notices that Ford has two fingers gently pressed against the pulse in his wrist. His heart beat picks up, then the Pillows behind his back are replaced with his brother, as he whispers that he’s safe now. He starts talking about his adventures in the multiverse, and something about griffins. He has one hand strapped to his chest, and the other held tightly in his twins, as he drifts off to the sound of Ford describing the sleeping habits of Baby Griffins.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions hit me up on tumblr. Same name. 
> 
> Hit me up, that's not something I ever thought I'd say.
> 
> I wrote this during the summer and it just seems so edgy now haha. Ah well.


End file.
